There's a Light
by Tammany Tiger
Summary: Mycroft finds himself on the run in London, avoiding assassins and fighting for his life, and that of John and Mary's six-month-old daughter. This was written in response to a reader request for my Mycroft X Baby. It's adventure, but it's also mushy. Consider yourselves warned. Disclaimer: Material on Croyden Minster is largely invented for use of this fic.


The bomb was like thunder, tossing the sleek black limousine sidewise, throwing it into the line of oncoming traffic. Mycroft, thrown across the back of the compartment, struggled instinctively to shield Mary Watson and her baby from his own weight, then shield them as blow after blow battered the car. Anthea was braced across his back, barely holding herself stable.

The baby wailed, high-pitched and frantic. Mary was silent, arms forming a protective cage around her child. Mycroft looked down at her, where she huddled in the foot well. She looked back up, a fierce little falcon of a woman.

"My people will protect us," Mycroft said. "Stay still until they've secured the area."

She shook her head. "They're after me. They won't stop until they get me. You've got to take Andy and run. Take her to her father."

Mycroft shifted. His knees were braced hard against the forward and backward facing seats of the passenger compartment, arms straddling the wide gap between back-rests. "Miss…Mrs. Watson, if they're out there waiting for you, I can hardly…"

His words were cut off as someone opened fire. Anthea screamed, then swore. "Bakri's reporting armed gunmen approaching on the right. We're clear to the left so far, but she's not sure she can hold it clear for long. Estimates fifteen, all with automatics."

"You can get out the right hand door," Mary shouted over the shooting. "You and Anthea take her and head for cover. At the very least you can make them play hide-and-seek in the office buildings."

"You, too."

"No," she shouted. "I'm…not going to make it. Broke my hip, I think." Her eyes blinked, and he looked down at her, horrified. "I can't run," she said, her voice cold and calm. "Take Andy. Run."

"I'm down, too," Anthea said, softly. "Took a round just now." Blood dripped down from above onto Mycroft's sleeve, confirming her statement. "You're going to take the com earpiece, and run for it." She handed down her communication unit. "Put it on, Mr. Holmes."

He didn't argue. Instead he was already plotting his retreat, trying to determine what would give them all the best chance. As soon as he had the wireless in place, he started talking. "Bakri, do you read?"

"Read, boss."

"I'm going to be leaving the limo heading for the office building on the right. I need cover, if possible. Once I'm done, though, your priority is this car: we've got an officer and a CIA liaison down, and no idea what's happened to our driver. Your team is to do everything possible to protect them. If you can keep anyone from trailing me, do it—but call for backup and send them to help. Meanwhile, I'll be pulling a Houdini: if I can disappear, I will. Expect to hear from me through alternate communications, as soon as I can arrange it." As he spoke he accepted Mary's daughter, tucking her inside the sweep of his coat, holding her close with one arm. He looked at Anthea. "Can you open the door, my dear?"

She nodded—then slipped her handgun into his coat pocket. "Run fast, Mr. Holmes." She smiled, then. "It's been an honor, sir."

"Tell me later," he said, knowing that the odds were there'd be no later. Then, fiercely, "The honor's been mine, you stupid girl." He kissed her cheek, then glanced at Mary. "Keep her alive if you can."

Mary nodded.

Anthea forced the door of the limo, pushing uphill against gravity. "You're going to have to drop down as fast as possible," she said, "then use the car as cover."

He nodded, scrambling under her braced legs, forcing himself up the slope of the foot well, working against the severe tilt of the chassis. There was already gunfire suggesting the attacking forces had seen the door open. He gave a frantic shove, and rolled as he exited, managing an ungainly flip that allowed him to land on his feet, one arm still tightly cradling the baby. Then he was running, feet pounding, resenting as always his comparative slowness and lack of speed or agility. He simply didn't have the right talents for movie-style espionage, nor did he really like even the real-world equivalent of field work. Placed at a computer with a tie-in to the internet, the military network, and his own specialized systems, and he could make the snottiest young turk in the hacker community pant and fall behind. This, though, depended on skills he never had a hope of mastering.

Hopping cheerfully off his running machine was usually the high point of his gymnastic ability or his speed racing. Yet here he was, the smooth leather soles of his brogues scrambling to obtain purchase on worn, dusty macadam tar, back aching as he stooped low, trying to keep all six-foot-one out of the line of fire.

At least the footpath was clear of pedestrians. Everyone had fled the scene by now, what with bombs and car crashes and now gunfire. Concrete chipped up as bullets hit, but he managed to swing the glass doors of the nearest office building open and hurtle in.

The lobby was empty, too. No wonder—again, the tumult outside wasn't reassuring. Mycroft looked frantically around the building, already searching his memory for a corresponding blueprint…the sort of detailed information he retained, that Sherlock so often discarded. Sherlock knew London; Mycroft, though, knew architecture. A fast sort-through suggested he'd find three major exits from the building, and four more minor, if the office complex conformed to the building regulations of the district and era of construction. He discarded the main exits immediately, then ventured a guess which of the minor exits would be least likely to be observed by Mary Watson's enemies. He loped down an access hall heading for the end rental unit, barging in without knocking.

The place was still as a tomb for a moment, then someone shrieked and someone else rocketed up from behind a desk and still more people scrambled to find improved cover from him. He raised one gloved hand, shouting over Andy's shrieks, "Just seeking cover!" Then, slipping Andy from his coat, he added, "I've got a baby! We're just looking for someplace safe to exit the building!"

The sense he was about to be tackled by an office full of frantic paper-pushers receded. He sighed. "I need to keep moving. I think they saw me, and I'm not sure they won't follow, just in case. Can anyone loan me a coat? Something they won't recognize?"

A woman at one side said, softly, "Do you mind if it's a fuchsia anorak?"

Actually, he did, rather. But beggars couldn't be choosers. The woman was tall and rangy, and her coat was likely to fit. "Fuchsia is fine. Hat? Scarf? Anything you can do to help disguise us."

There was a scramble as the office workers raced around, gathering up options from hooks and cubbies around the room. They quickly helped Mycroft shift out of his bespoke wool coat and his vicuna scarf, wrapping him in the woman's hip-length fuchsia coat, a blue wool balaclava, and a striped scarf that would do Doctor Who proud. He gritted his teeth, then, and said, softly, "Please, don't panic. I'm MI6, and I really do have the right to carry this," as he slipped his hand into the pocket of his own coat, and retrieved Anthea's gun. "If you pray, pray I don't have to use it," he added, apologetically. Then, looking at the baby, said fretfully, "Oh, bother. She's not dressed for this at all, is she?"

A plump little grandmotherly type tsked. "Not very, no, dear."

"I can help," another woman said, and hauled out a bag of knitting. "It's too big for her. I was making it for my nephew. But it will keep her warm, at least. Hold on while I cast off."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I don't think we have time for you to cast off."

"It'll come unravelled," she protested.

"I'll try to get something else before it does," he growled.

She sighed, nodded, and slipped the knitting needles out of the bright blue and yellow Thomas the Tank Engine jumper she'd knit. "Shame I didn't go for the crocheted version," she sighed. "One quick knot and the problem would be settled." She helped as Mycroft quickly pulled the jumper over Andy's head.

The girl was still wailing like a siren.

In the lobby behind there was a sudden crash, and shouting. It echoed down the hallways. Then there was a burst of gunfire.

The office workers looked at Mycroft, terrified.

"Hell. Follow me," he snarled, gathering Andy up and preparing to run. "Out the exit, then scatter. Head for cover. This won't last long, there are already forces on their way. Understand? Just scarper." With that he shot down the sub-hall leading through the office to a single-doored exit. His hand slammed against the push-bar, and they all tumbled out into a delivery yard. He swept his free arm wide. "Run. Get under cover. They don't have time to roust you all out—and they don't give a damn about you anyway." Then he was gone, loping as fast as he could for an alley, mind mapping out the various routes through this minor business zone, trying to figure out where he could go to further muddy the trail.

"Bakri," he snarled into the wireless, "report!"

"It's a standoff with the car. Boss, I'm not sure anyone's alive in there, yet. Most of their forces have backed off, and the ones left are entrenched and don't look like they're leaving until they're sure the Watson woman's dead. The rest—some made it in after you, and more are working the area. No idea if they've got others salting the space."

Mycroft swore. "I'm going to do down deep. No idea where I'm going, and I wouldn't tell you if I did know: not sure they're not listening in. Pass the word to my brother and to Mrs. Watson's husband that I've got the baby and will be doing what I can to keep her safe. Pass on word: we're going to the Fimbulwinter protocol. Remind everyone that Fenris bites. Oh, and for the love of God, make sure that my backup charge card can't be traced? I'm going to be putting some wear on it in the next hour or so, and I'd really rather not let whoever is stalking me know what I'm wearing or where I buy it?"

"Done, boss."

As he'd been talking, Mycroft had dodged down the access alley, around a corner and into a professional building (doctors, dentists, and unexpectedly, a massage parlor). He passed straight through that building, jogged left down the road and into the back door of a restaurant, out onto a strip of shops. There he darted into a menswear shop and found a royal blue pea coat, a wooly hat, and a dark blue scarf, as well as a pair of unforgivably ugly overboots. He bought the lot, and scurried along to a children's store two doors down.

"Desperate Da coming through," he announced, as he hoisted Andy to his hip. "Been left with the spawn and she's gone and spit up on or peed into every last thing 'er mum packed for her. Mayday, mayday! Help!" He gave his best "hapless dad" grin, looking worriedly around the shop girls and the mums and grandmums occupying the store. "Needs everything, from her nappies out!"

It worked. In second he and Andy were surrounded by cooing, chirping Samaritans set on assisting the poor hapless male. He stepped back while they raced around, locating rompers and jumpers and cloth nappies and plastic nappy covers. It was his first chance to check Andy over, having been a bit rushed back in the office. She wasn't crying, now—hiccupping sorrowfully, but settling down a bit. He chucked her up and down, gently, and glanced back at the women's choices. "Coat, too," Mycroft said, "She needs a coat. It's cold out there. And—bottles?"

"And a bag," one of the older shopkeepers said, amused. "Here, let me." In seconds she'd sorted out three entire outfits, a set of nappies, bottles, a hat, a handful of toys…"

"A flannel blanket," Mycroft added, looking it over. "And wipes—lots of wipes. Lots of wipes."

"Not your first time as a Da, then, is it?" the woman said, grinning.

"Big brother before I was a Da," he grinned back. "You learn a lot when you're 'Mummy's Little Helper.'" He rolled his eyes. "Especially with mybrother. I swear, he could spit up on cue. And I shan't even attempt to discuss the many ways he attempted to emulate a fountain…"

The women all giggled. "I put a nappie over his privates every time I change mine," one of the mothers said, amused. "Otherwise it's the Trevi Fountain, only yellow. Fwoosh—right up in the air!"

"Only way I ever found to stay safe," Mycroft said, agreeing. "The range on that child! It was prodigious."

The shopkeeper rang up the purchases, packing them into a vast pink tote as she went. "Anything else, Daddy?"

He smiled. "No. You've been a wonder. Thank you all so much! Ta!" He sloped out, accompanied by cheery farewells and shouts of good will.

From there he slipped two blocks over, cutting through a sports shop and a pub. Then he risked a taxi, working through where he could go that was unlikely to be located. His rooms on Pall Mall were right out, as was the estate. The Diogenes? No. The Diogenes was no place for a baby, even if no one associated it with him. He ticked his way through the limited places he commonly frequented. The tasteful club where a gentleman of taste and refinement could find a clean and willing companion for an evening? No, certainly not. The many restaurants he'd frequented over the years? Far from idea.

He shucked off the fuchsia coat, the balaclava, and the Doctor Who scarf, stuffing them into the shopping bags as he proceeded to don the new apparel. He transferred Anthea's gun once more. Then he changed Andy, who frowned and started cranking.

"Good thing I got the nappies," he said in resignation, as he reached the bottom layer. "Not that I think any the less of you, my dear: it would take a far more seasoned infant than you are not to want to wet herself after the last hour." He was pleased to find he'd not lost his knack with a nappy. There was an art to it: you had to pull the fabric just tight enough, but not too tight, and keep a close eye on how it lay around the waist and the crease of the hip. The pin had to be just right, too. Once Andy was dry, with a plastic nappy cover and a romper on, he worked her into her new coat and hat: candy-color polka dots on both, and a pair of mittens attached by a string. He smiled, feeling clever to have noticed in time to lace the mittens through the coat arms before putting it on Andy.

She cranked more. He considered. "Hungry, love?"

She flapped her hands. He'd left the mittens free, and they swung up and down. "Gah."

"Gah? All right. Gah it is. Fresh gah and possibly some chips." He slipped out of the car, child easily settled on his hip, and snagged the bags. Then he galloped down the stairs to the tube station. It took only minutes to lock the bags into a rental locker, then buy a ticket to St. Pancras Station. Once there, he slipped into a pub he knew where he was commonly believed to be a plumber.

"Oi, Mikey!" one of the regulars called, as he came in. "'aven't see you in a dog's age! Wos 'at? Your kid?"

"M'girl," Mycroft agreed, beaming.

"How old?"

"Six months," Mycroft responded, with comfortable certainty.

"No wonder we've not seen hide nor hair of y' for goin' on a year, then! Y'get married, then?"

"Wouldn't have me," Mycroft said, faking gloom—while he was willing to claim a child, he felt a bit uneasy claiming a wife as well. "Trying to talk her around. Doesn't believe in marriage."

"Women!" the barkeep said, from behind his polished wooden counter. "Don't know what's good for 'em, I tell you. So—a pint for you and the little miss?"

"Pint for me, milk for the girl if you've got it, and an order of bangers, eggs, and chips. You got anything I can pretend is vegetable? T' old woman's going to be after me if I don't get somethin' healthy into 'er."

"Got some applesauce," the barkeep said, dubiously.

"I'll take it."

"What's 'er name?" the regular asked, making foolish faces at Andy, who scowled at him suspiciously.

"Ann," Mycroft said, hoping Andy would consider it close enough to respond to. Considering the limited accuracy of her own vocabulary, he thought she had no just grounds for complaint, after all. "After her mother." Which was true enough, in its way…

He found a high chair and set it up at the end of a booth table, then settled himself in the booth, greeting the pint when it arrived with more welcome than he really felt. Beer and ales were drinkable, but not on the top of his preference list. Still, even if he could order a Le Pin Pomerol grand cru in this little pub, it would hardly help him fit in.

"At least they appear to have had a good vintage of milk," he told Andy, after cautiously smelling and then taking a spoonful of the glass the barkeep had brought. He poured it into the bottle, collected Andy from her chair, and cradled her easily, watching as she clamped down tight on the silicone nipple. She made a face, whinged once, then snapped it up again, sucking fiercely.

Mycroft smiled, a bit wistfully. "Your honorary uncle's been teaching you his manners, I see. Just between you and me, my dear, you might want to check with the other lads and lasses around the park to find out what's de rigeur in the infant set these days. Sherlock was always a bit intense for the common crowd. First thing he did when he got his incisors was take the tip off three bottles in a row. You wouldn't believe the mess I had to clean up!"

Andy closed her eyes and sucked harder. Mycroft sighed. She wasn't as alert as Sherlock had been, though she was also easier to please. Sherlock wouldn't have stopped howling from the moment the bomb went off until whatever time he was rescued and brought home. Which reminded Mycroft…

He slipped his mobile phone from his trouser pocket, and dialed Sherlock's number.

"Where are you?" Sherlock growled, not even bothering to say hello.

"Safe, thank you ever so much," Mycroft replied. "Is it secure to come in, yet?"

"No."

"Can you give me an update?"

"No."

"People still after me?"

"Yes."

"Very well. I'll be in touch, but I'm only coming in when all's secure."

"John wants to know…"

"Tell John if there were any news, I'd let him know." Mycroft said, hoping that was oblique enough if anyone had tapped into Sherlock's line. "You online?"]

"Tablet."

"Keep watch. I'll be in contact. One way or another." He hung up and shoved the phone deep into the crease of the back rest and the seat. So far there was no sign of anyone tracking him, and his GPS was shielded, but he didn't want to take chances-not with the child slowly falling asleep in his arms.

The barkeep arrived with the bangers and eggs and chips. Mycroft ate them one-handed, with the bottle propped against his chest, watching the girl drowse in and out of sleep, sucking down milk, then napping, then sucking again. She was a fair blonde child, as one would expect given her parents. Dressed in the white and candy-colored coat she looked like a party cake all frosted for someone's birthday tea.

Mycroft delicately licked the salt and grease off his fingers from the chips, wiped them carefully, then tucked the child's hood up to protect her from the draft as people came in and out of the pub. He rocked the girl and considered his options.

He couldn't afford to stay out in the field for too long; too many things depended on him. On the other hand, the fact that Sherlock couldn't update him indicated either that Mary Watson was still alive and targeted—in which case her child was bait at best, and a collateral target at worst—or that Mycroft himself had been a primary or secondary target and was being sought and possibly followed. As long as that was the case, he didn't dare come in, either; not unless he could be sure of doing so safely. Better out of touch than dead or captured, after all.

That, though, meant making arrangements for himself and Andy, and every move he made ran a risk of drawing attention to them, rather than hiding them more securely.

Andy squirmed and made grumpy-baby noises. Mycroft knew from experience with Sherlock, that he couldn't afford to stay on the move, as he would have were he on his own. As little as he liked field work, he understood it, and knew how to survive, especially in London. It wasn't his the way it belonged to Sherlock, but it remained his home territory. He could have shifted in and out of a dozen identities by now, slipped between the cracks, disappeared entirely, dossing in one bolt-hole one night, moving to another come morning, drifting to a safe house later, as invisible as a ghost. A man with a child on his hip didn't have the same freedom, though. He pondered.

When the barkeep came to clear away the plates, he said, "Got to get a new laptop, Chay. Where would you got to pick something up cheap, eh?"

"Up at Renwick's?" the man said. "It's a buyout place: pick up stuff from businesses that go under. Nothin' fancy, but they're honest."

Mycroft took the address from the man, collected Andy's tote, and moved on. Within an hour he had a used laptop. Within an hour and a half he'd found a café with free wifi, and logged onto Skype with a new screenname.

**Captain Kid: Ahoy.**

**Sherlock: Who's smarter?**

**Captain Kid: That's My job.**

**Sherlock: You wish. Safe?**

**Captain Kid: Yes. Update?**

**Sherlock: Situation precarious on all fronts. They're looking for you. Disappear.**

**Captain Kid: Yes. Suggestions?**

**Sherlock: Traditional methods brought up to date. Even murder must advertise.**

**Captain Kid: Understood. I always did love Redbeard. Maybe it's time for a replacement.**

He logged out of Skype, then performed a complex maneuver, arranging to take over an untenanted furnished flat in Knightsbridge. On the way there he stopped at Oxfam and picked out a baby sling, a portable child's cot, and a worn but respectable tweed jacket suited to an academic, along with several pairs of chinos, four checked oxford shirts reminiscent of John Watson, and a vest that hovered somewhere between John's taste and Mycroft's own…which meant it was poorly suited to either, but quite appropriate for the soon-to-be-invoked "Professor Trelawny." He even made himself buy a pair of soft suede shoes that reeked of the 80s.

Then he broke down and bought a nightie with bunnies on it for Andy, along with a chubby stuffed bear that looked clean and unused. And two crocheted blankets. And then there was a soft, fleecy zipped thing he couldn't name, but which would keep Andy much warmer if they had to keep moving tomorrow.

A stop by Tesco's for baby food, more wipes, milk, tea bags, beans, and several packs of Tim-Tams covered his most immediate needs. He took one more taxi to the flat, arriving just as Andy determined he was no longer fit to serve as infant furniture, and woke, shrieking like a siren.

"Shhhh, shhhh, ducky," he said, quickly picking the lock and snapping on the lights in the little apartment. "Dinner and bath-time and then I'll read you something nice off the internet, and then I'll set up your cot…" He was loaded to the limit, like a third-world donkey, juggling bags and sacks and totes and one furious girl-child. "A spot of T.S. Eliot ought to serve. Used to put Sherlock to sleep like a dream. Or Wordsworth, if you don't mind the underlying theist assumptions…Or Gerard Manley Hopkins. Why are so many of our best poets theists, I wonder? It's puzzling, that…"

He lumbered to the kitchen, and heaped everything not living and flailing on the kitchen table, looking around at what he'd successfully rented. It was modest, but respectable, and reasonably well equipped—but it was also far closer to Sherlock's usual style than Mycroft's. He sighed, but resigned himself. "Someday, love, I'll have you over to mine," he told the baby. "Meanwhile we'll both have to just grub along with what's available."

Andy howled at him, face red and eyes leaking tears. He jogged her on his hip, but it only made her sob louder. He was fairly sure she'd just reached her limit on "not Mum or Da."

"Shhh," he said. He carried her back to the living room. He spread a blanket on the floor, put the child on the blanket, and proceeded to assemble the portable cot, swearing intensely at the lack of instructions. "This is why I never buy second-hand," he told the child, who'd quieted enough to lie on her belly, watching him. Not that he ever bought "second hand," unless you counted the purchase of antique art and furniture, but even in his student days he'd disliked the gamble of Oxfam do-it-yourself. Still, when he was done there was a sturdy cot standing in the middle of the room. He gathered up child and blanket, and put both in the cot. "I've got to make us something for dinner. I'll be quick as I can."

He wasn't quick enough. Andy screamed and screamed her wrath. Mycroft was relieved he still knew how to scramble eggs and boil water. As soon as he could he retrieved Andy. With no high chair he once again settled her on his lap, this time sitting properly. "One bite for you with this end of the spoon. And one for me, with the big end!" He sighed, then. "No. Don't spit it out. I have to have a word with Sherlock—he's obviously been giving you hints in preparation for a day like this. Try again, love. That's right. Oh, do be reasonable: it's perfectly good egg! Well. A bit sulfury and dry, but edible, at least. What about this mashed pea stuff? Mmmmm. Going by smell I can only agree, but I do wish you hadn't expressed your opinion quite so vigorously. Heaven only knows when I'll be able to take these trousers to a proper cleaner, after all."

When they were both done, Mycroft washed the dishes one-handed, with Andy on his hip, then took her back out to the living room. He set up his laptop and risked searching out a government wifi signal, hoping to hitch a ride. He was out of luck. "One more errand to run tomorrow," he said. "New phone that can't be traced. New hot-spot. More food. Cash. Who knew babysitting was so much effort?"

Andy scowled at him. He made a face back. She laughed. He smiled. She grabbed his nose and pulled…hard. Fortunately he'd already survived Sherlock. He gently recovered his injured organ, picking strong little fingers free.

"Bathtime?" he asked.

She waved and flapped.

"Ah, good. Bathtime, then," he said, and carted her to the little bathroom…where he found no supplies.

"Bath soap, hand soap, baby shampoo, towels, flannels… Good God. I'll be beggared!" He ended up giving her a water-only bath, followed by a quick once over with baby wipes, followed by being wrapped in a flannel blanket until dry. Then he tucked her back into another new nappy, another cover, and the warm thing he couldn't name but that looked warm and cozy and safe. He tucked her into the cot, turned out the lights, and padded down the way to go to bed.

No pajamas, he thought. No fresh underwear for tomorrow, either, and I don't even want to imagine what Sherlock would say if he knew I was going to have to go commando. No toothbrush, no toothpaste.

He smiled. He'd fed the baby, and kept her alive, and that was all that mattered. Granted he was cold, and sleeping the night on a bed with no sheets or blankets, and tomorrow he'd venture forth in the world in clothing fitting a minor scholar—with no pants underneath. But he'd kept Andy alive and well, and when you factored in both bachelorhood and armed assailants that was hardly a minor accomplishment, after all. He stripped down, stole all Andy's spare blankets, added on his coats, used the bags stuffed with his other spare clothing as a pillow, and prepared to sleep.

Two hours later, he was on his third attempt at "The Great Selkie of Sule Skerrie." "Waters of Babylon" hadn't worked, nor had "Sweet and Low."

"Shhhh, shhhh, shhhh, sleep, dammit. Sleeeep." He lay next to the low cot in nothing but his pants and vest, ready to cry along with her. "Oh, for goodness sake, child, sleep!"

She sniveled, murmured, turned over—then began to flail and shriek some more.

He sighed, and checked her nappy for the third time. This time it was wet.

"At least this time you have an excuse," he growled, and hauled her out. "You're so lucky I've been previously tormented by dear Sherlock. This may be maddening, but you're still little, and you're not in withdrawal. Nothing you can do tops that." He narrowed his eyes, and glared at her, as she thrashed and sniveled. "And don't even think of trying to imitate Uncle Sherlock. Dr. Watson and I may not entirely get along, but I admire your mother quite highly, and I'd not do either her or your father the disservice of putting them through any of Sherlock's wilder efforts." He zipped her back into the snug baby-sack-thing.

The room was dark, the child was warm—if loud. He wasn't going to have a comfortable night regardless. He fetched his blue coat, piled the sofa cushions to support him as he leaned against the sofa, and lay down, letting Andy lie on his stomach. "I'm running out of appropriate songs, child," he whined. "If I go classical—well, you didn't like Brahms or Liszt. My folk repertoire is limited in the extreme. And what I know of pop is largely improper."

Andy flapped and thrashed.

"Very well. But don't say you weren't warned," he said, reprovingly. "It's not my fault I grew up gay in the 80s… but I don't have the voice for this." He drew a breath, and began, "In the velvet darkness of the blackest night, burning bright, there's a guiding star, no matter what or who you are…There's a light, over at the Frankenstein place…"

Andy laughed, gurgled, and cuddled close. Mycroft cocked his head up, neck aching. "Really?"

She sighed, then made a small grumpy noise.

"All right, all right. Don't be so pushy. Who knew you'd like 'Rocky Horror'?" He settled and began again. When that was done he moved on. By the tenth round of "Don't dream it, be it," they were both asleep.

The next morning he woke aching in joints he didn't even know he had, freezing to death, in his underwear, under a pea coat, with a child exploring his nostrils and with drool all over his chest.

"Mmgggphn."

Andy frowned at him, and realizing she had someone to complain to again, began to whinge.

"Yes, yes. All right. Can I go to the lav, first? Argh! No. All right, all right, just a moment. Nappy—wet. Of course. This is why people buy disposables, right? Because they can't keep up with the laundry if they use cloth. I'll add it to the list. Hold it, hold it, stop kicking… Dammit! Now I've lost the pin. No. You can sit there on the floor while I… Oh, God. You didn't. Why didn't you do it all at once in the nappy, lovie?"

He sighed, grabbed wipes, and proceeded with set-jawed determination, a step at a time, unswerving, until Andy was clean, dry, dressed, the carpet cleaned as well as could be rationally attempted. He filled a bottle with milk, added formula to the list of things to be obtained, and settled on the sofa to feed Andy. When that was done, and only then, did he manage to get to the lav, clean up, regret the lack of a razor, do the best he could, dress, and proceed to collect his tools for a day away from the flat.

The baby tote was filled to the brim with the remaining nappies, wipes, toys, food, his laptop, flannel blankets, spare clothes. He put on his coat, with the gun in the pocket, strapped on the baby sling, installed the baby, grabbed the tote, and headed out, locking the door behind him. He crept down the stairs, feeling unsure of his balance and worried over it—it was one thing to risk a fall on his own; another to fall with Andy strapped firmly at the point of his hip. It took him far too long to reach the ground floor. From there he headed for the Tube, and from the Tube to the shopping district, stopping first at an electronics store to purchase and activate a new phone and a hot-spot. Then he moved on to a café with wireless.

Once he had Andy settled in a high chair (and oh, thank God, they had one!) he set them both up for a long stay. Andy got fruit to gnaw, and a bottle filled with apple juice he poured out of a carton. He got himself a sausage roll and hot cross buns, along with an oversized latte filled with a number of things he was fairly sure were not good for him: sugar, whipped cream, chocolate syrup… But after the previous day he felt he was entitled. He opened up the laptop, logged in under his new identity, and jumped over to the London craigslist posts, checking the pet section.

**FEMALE IRISH SETTER PUPPY SOUGHT—**mother badly injured in accident, looking for companionship. Father determined to find puppy.**REDBEARD **lineage strongly desired. Contact by return email.

Dear. It looked like Mary wasn't doing well—though at least she was alive. And John was apparently not amused that his daughter was missing. Not that Mycroft could blame him, but… He sighed, copied the craigslist address, and wrote, "I have a six month old female puppy of the Redbeard line. She's healthy, well-cared for, and secure. Can you confirm status of destination? Will not offer until all concerns are dealt with. Contact by return email or by phone." He gave the number of his new mobile.

Minutes after hitting send, the mobile buzzed. Mycroft swallowed his latte and answered. "Yes? Michael Trelawny, here. Who's calling?"

"Aye, it's Will, wot placed th' add, yeah. Fanks for getting' back," Sherlock said, voice heavy with a rather poor approximation of an East Ender's accent. "We really want th' puppy, y'know."

"I daresay you do, but I'm concerned. You say your mother's been injured?"

"She's real bad, in 'orspital," Sherlock said, and his voice suggested that "real bad" and "hospital" were both true, and of pressing concern. "Want the pup while she can see 'er, right?"

"I doubt it's safe to bring a puppy to the hospital—not for the pup or your mother," Mycroft responded. "How was your mother hurt?"

"'Collateral damage,'" Sherlock growled. "Some bugger was lookin' at some other bloke he was mad at, and she got in th' way, right?"

"I see. No indication she was involved by intent?" It was more than he wanted to ask, but he was fairly sure the connection was safe. For now.

"Still confirming. We know the bloke was the primary, though," Sherlock said, taking similar risks. Then, throwing caution to the winds, "They're aiming for you, Mike. You've got to get Andy back to us. Mary may not make it, and John's frantic, and you're running around London with hit-men after you dragging their baby around with you. We're trying to arrange a drop."

"I can't just drop a…puppy off," Mycroft snarled. "And any drop you set up has a high chance of being located. Do you know who arranged the hit?"

"Looking into it."

"And..Anthea?"

Sherlock sighed. "She…may make it. She's in worse shape than Mary, though, and they don't think Mary's case is promising."

Mycroft was silent.

The truth was, he valued Anthea above almost anyone but Sherlock, and Mary Watson far above her stubborn, clueless, headstrong husband, with his lust for danger and his inability to assess that danger accurately. John was a good man, but as much of a loose canon as Sherlock. More, perhaps: Sherlock at least understood what game he was playing, and what board it was played on. Mycroft had appreciated Mary's skills in her hidden past with the CIA. The truth was, he'd been bringing Andy back to Mary far more than to John.

Now it looked like time was running short for that goal. He regretted it far more than he dared tell Sherlock.

"I'll see what I can do on my side, Will," he said, quietly. "But I'm limited. My first priority has to be the pup's safety and my own. Give me a safe option, and I'll be happy to get her to your mother. But you've got to convince me it's safe."

"Understood," Sherlock said, not sounding happy, but at least cooperative for a change. "Transfer in a Tube station, during rush hour?"

"Hides enemies as well as it hides us. Too easy to strike silently from out of the crowd and disappear. Too hard to transfer the puppy safely."

"Leave her at a day care? We'll pick her up?"

"Can you confirm no one's hacked our system? Our schedule yesterday was supposed to be secret."

"Working on securing the lines."

"When you're sure, we can try the day care. Or…" he closed his eyes, and thought, quickly. "No. Sherlock, I need someone with a picture of Andy—all the right wallet information and ID—to be a Harrod's this afternoon. I'm going to take her to their management office and report I found her abandoned in the gents. You have your person come in after, wailing her baby's been nabbed."

"No." Sherlock's voice wasn't compromising. "No way to secure the transfer, too many people around. Can't risk it."

Mycroft sighed. "Then—you work on the day care idea. I'll see what I can do on this side. I'll let you know if I change phones again."

Once off the phone, he turned his full attention back to Andy. "Well, you have made a mess, haven't you? Banana facial: the latest beauty treatment?"

"Li-li-li-li," Andy yodeled. "Li-li-li-li-li!"

He couldn't help smiling. She wasn't as clever as Sherlock had been, but she was sweet in spite of that. Her eyes smiled. "Li-li-li," he said back to her, and wiped her hands and face. He took a half-hour from "practical" things, looking up a children's book online and reading it to her, pointing to pictures and watching her grin and point and grab at the image on screen. "Yes, that's Paddington Bear. His tag says, 'please take care of this bear.'" He eased her from the high chair and gave her a hug, letting her stand unsteadily on the bench seat and lean against him as she studied the screen. "It's always a good thing to take care of lost bears from Peru." She frowned and looked at him, blue eyes stormy, and said, "Li-li-li" somewhat more emphatically than previously. He nodded. "Well, all right. Patagonian bears, too, if you insist."

She grabbed his nose. "Li?"

"No." He gave a crooked smile. "'My.' You can call me Uncle My."

"Li," she said, and tugged harder.

"Yes, it's long," he said, easing himself free, "But no lies—I'm not Pinocchio. Or only when duty requires."

She snatched again, and he leaned away, laughing. "No, you can't have my nose. It's 'My's' nose."

She laughed back, then frowned, and then clearly ensured the need to stop at Tesco's for fresh nappies next. He sighed and dragged her and all her paraphernalia into the men's, where he found there was no changing table, because apparently ordinary men never got stuck with nappy duty. He made do with the counter, then slipped her into her sling and headed back out to continue their day.

The main thing, he thought, was to keep out of sight. He stopped at a department store and bought more clothes, including underwear, then took a taxi over to the Tesco's near the flat, buying up as much as he thought he could carry: razor, toothbrush, toiletries, nappies, garbage bags, food, flannels, and more. He collected enough cash to run on a cash economy for months, using his emergency card, that was theoretically anonymous. Then he called another taxi to deliver them home, keeping them off the streets as much as he could.

When he checked the computer at noon-time, there was a new email waiting on his new account, this time with no attempt to cover tracks or pretend identities.

**Mycroft, stay where you are. There's a hunt up for you. We're trying to identify source, but not safe until we do. John says if you don't take care of Andy he's going to kill you himself. SH.**

Mycroft frowned, feeling a shiver. A hunt for him…and he'd been out all morning, trying to keep on the move. That was usually the wisest approach: don't get tied down. But it didn't work as well if you were the primary, not the secondary target. Especially not with someone who could afford to mount a hunt.

"Looks like we're staying home for awhile, sweetheart," he told Andy.

She waved her spoon and threw fruit yogurt at him.

"Bad shot," he said, wiping the splot on the table. "You'll have to improve if you want to take after your father and mother."

"Li-li-li," she sang. "Li-li-li."

Mycroft found an online TV service, and used his anonymous card to sign up. Then he and Andy watched a show about a pink elephant with a taste for cream buns.

"I can agree with her about the cream buns," Mycroft said to Andy. "But what is it with the pink?"

"Li-li-li," Andy said, thoughtfully. Then she lay down and fell asleep with her head on his thigh. He considered trying to slip her into her cot and getting more serious things done, but settled for reviewing the world news. In the process he came up with three possible sources of the hit out on him, sent the ideas to Sherlock, received and instant response that they'd already been checked. After that Mycroft simply decided it was easier to sleep.

He woke up just as Andy eased herself to the floor and shot off at a monumental clip, headed for the kitchen.

"Ah-ah. Not a chance, my dear. Again, your Uncle Sherlock already trained me for this." He swept her up with a great swoosh, reducing her to instant giggles. He was halfway through a cheerful tickle-cuddle when it occurred to him that he was playing with a child whose mother lay in hospital, quite possibly dying as a result of being too close to Mycroft, with a father who wanted to kill him for good reason, at a time when he was being hunted by deadly enemies. It sobered him.

Andy, though, wasn't interested. She squiggled and crept and hauled herself upright, using the tweed lapels of his second-hand jacket as grips. She pushed her face into his. "Li-li-li."

"No. I'm My. My-My-My."

She laughed. "Li-li-li!"

"My-My-My."

She laughed and sat with a mighty thump—and that was when he realized it was nappy time again. Once she was clean he put her in her cot, and set the laptop on a nearby chair, turned to the elephant show. Then he slipped out the new phone, and dialed the number Sherlock had used to call him earlier. He no sooner got through, though, when Sherlock snarled, "Get off the line. Run. We're hacked!" and hung up on him.

Mycroft looked at the phone, a shiver of fear creeping up his spine and rising the hairs on the nape of his neck. He grabbed the laptop and jumped to his email, ignoring Andy's shout of anger. One email from Sherlock, "Hacked. All contacts suspect. Run."

Mycroft swore. Then he was up and in motion, grabbing critical items, sweeping them into the tote. Laptop? Worth keeping: he could create a new identity easily enough. Hot spot? Suspect: leave it. Phone? Suspect. Mycroft changed clothes, swore because Andy's sling was too easily recognized, and kept on. Anthea's gun was still in his pocket. Mycroft did what he could to alter the blend of clothing and scarves and hats he wore. He did what he could with Andy, too, putting her in a new outfit and then stuffing her in the zip-up baby-sack thing he still couldn't name. He picked her up, clutched her to his chest, and was gone, heading into the shadows of a late winter afternoon.

The trick, he thought, was to blend. Where did middle-aged men with a baby on the hip blend in, though? It wasn't his area of expertise. Tesco's again? Not the same shop: he didn't dare risk it. He paced down the footpath, clinging to Andy, who whimpered, sensing his fear.

"Shhh," he crooned, softly. "Shhhh. It's ok, love. It's ok. I'll sing to you, all right? 'There's a light over at the Frankenstein place, there's a li-i-i-i-i-ght, burning in the fireplace, there's a light, li-i-ight in the darkness of everyyyy body's life…"

"Li-li-li" she crooned back, and bounced happily in his arms. "Li-li-li! My-my-my!"

He kept on. A woman walking past him smiled,= and sang back over her shoulder, "Just the same, there has got to be something better here for you and me…"

Which, he thought in angry frustration, was what it had always been about. Something better—a better place. A better world. Sherlock laughed at him, and nothing he said ever seemed to get through to his younger brother that it had all been about something—that it still was.

"Flow Morpheus, flow, let the sun and light come streaming into my life…"

And now he was being hunted for it—he and Andy, who was six months old and had no idea what any of it was about. He couldn't argue that it was unfair—not in a world that contained Ugandan child-soldiers and orphans warehoused in near-prisons around the world and babies dying of cholera when all they needed to survive was clean water and an IV saline drip. Mycroft knew "fair" and "unfair" and he and Andy were at least understandable targets of cruel fortune.

But this was not how he wanted things to end.

He ran the situation through. If they'd been hacked, there was a chance the hackers had even made it through to his anonymous card account—in which case they knew the address of the flat. There was a fair chance he was already being stalked locally. He didn't dare flag a cab—it called too much attention to him and to Andy. He didn't dare go into a place with too many people: these killers didn't appear to care about collateral damage. He considered trying to find a police station—but time was pressing, and, again, the people after him were raw killers.

No. What he needed was a place where he could control the access. He raced through his mental maps, debated options. He needed someplace high up, with only one point of access. Someplace he could draw not just his enemies, but his allies.

He glanced around. He'd made it as far as Church Street. The realization raced through his memory—memory he stored not in a quaint little Mind Palace, like Sherlock, but in a lacy network of patterns loosely patterned on search engines, each fact flagged with hundreds of subtle tags and cross references.

Croydon Minster, with a bell tower and a twelve-bell ring. He hurried, moving as fast as he could. He couldn't draw attention, and he didn't dare fall with Andy in his arms. He was still not the most adept agent ever to rush against time and death. No gymnast. His double-O rating had nothing to do with being able to perform death-defying tricks while dangling from helicopters, or leap from bridges and survive the fall, or run along the tops of trains. He could fight if he had to, provided his enemies weren't too insanely good. He could shot straight, so long as he didn't have to manage sniper-class shots with the wrong weapons while on the run. But his primary talent was what it had always been: nerves that never gave in, not because he was fearless but because he was too stubborn to let fear rule him, and brains that waltzed rings around lesser mortals. He'd never win an award for running—but he might, occasionally, win an stay of execution for running somewhere really clever.

The church loomed ahead, and he was about to breathe a sigh of relief when someone shot. Whoever it was didn't miss—or not by much. He felt the explosion of pain through his calf, and nearly went down.

Oh, not good. So very not good. People could keep on with a muscle wound—it could be done. But it wasn't easy, and it would slow him down. He slipped behind a car and scanned the road, looking for his shooter.

There—on the other side, and three buildings back, moving toward him cautiously, looking for a good shot and slipping a phone out of his pocket. So only the one man knew here he was…

Mycroft drew Anthea's gun out of his pocket, steadied his arm against the roof of the car, and shot. His assailant fell. Andy screamed, terrified by the closeness of the shot, where she'd barely even noticed the gunfire that had hit Mycroft. Mycroft jogged her, humming unconsciously as he headed out again, limping toward the church.

"But all I know, is down inside I'm bleeding…"

The words of "Superheroes" wound in and out of the disturbing bridge of "Over at the Frankenstein Place."

Flow, Morpheus, flow—and still the beast is feeding. Prayers for light and fear of darkness—including the darkness in mortal hearts.

The church was locked—no church these days offered the safe sanctuary of the middle ages, when a church was open to any man or woman in need.

"No doubt they lost a dreadful lot of church silver, though," he said to Andy, conversationally, as he slipped the gun back in his pocket, found his tools in his trousers, and picked the lock. "But it was a lovely notion while it lasted, wasn't it?"

She'd buried her face against his chest. He held her snug against himself with one hand. He closed the door behind him, determined to leave his hunters no clue where he was until he had secured his last battle site. He had to grope in the dark, counting on his familiarity with classic church layout to find the door up into the bell tower. He didn't have to go high—up to the ringers' room, where the ropes hung, no further. The door was locked, too—this time an old, painfully easy Victorian lock, the kind that took a big classic iron key. He had it open in seconds. He locked it behind him. Then he sat heavily on the stair, finally giving in to the agony in his leg. He leaned against the wall, panting and trying to evaluate his status.

Wounded, yes. He could probably do something about the bleeding, though: between flannel blankies and nappies of all sorts he should be able to rig a bandage and tourniquet. One child—sobbing but alive. Limited ammunition, and why hadn't he bothered to see what was in the cartridge? Too busy running around playing Uncle My. Stupid, so stupid.

He had to reach the ringing room. If he just hid, there was too much chance his hunters would eventually find him. With one man down and not answering their calls, they'd work out soon enough roughly where he was. With his blood on the footpath they'd know where he went. He had to bring allies, and he didn't have his phone or his hot spot. But the bells would bring people—and with luck, there were people on his side, waiting for a sign.

It wasn't certain. But it wasn't stupid, either.

He eased his way up the stairs like a petulant child, bumping his bottom up a tread at a time, too frightened to trust his weight or Andy's life to his injured leg. One landing, two landings, and he was at the ringers' room. Another lock to pick. He was quick—and then they were in. He locked the door, put Andy down, and scrabbled through the tote, finding a flannel blanket and a disposable nappy. The nappy he rammed up the inside of his trouser-leg, forcing it tight against the wound, making the fabric of the chino tighten, turning it all into a make-do pressure bandage. Then he spun the flannel into a rope and tied it high, just under his knee.

In the dim light he assessed the space. He controlled the door. No one could attack him easily from below, unless they scaled the wall and tried to enter through the window. The ropes dangled in the middle of the room, swinging lightly from the motion of his entrance. Against the back wall there was a cupboard—an old thing that appeared to have been dragged up by a previous generation in need of a place to store spare ropes and sallies and sheaves of pricked out changes. It fit the space poorly, leaving a nook at one end.

Mycroft picked up Andy, who was heading into the exhaustion of emotional shock. He tucked her into the nook.

"Stay there, love." He dug out a spare rope from the cupboard and tied it to the smallest of the ropes. He didn't need a big bell, he thought, he needed a light bell he could ring forever. He inched back to the corner, putting his back to Andy, setting himself as the last barrier between the child and anyone who approached. He drew the gun and let it rest on his good knee. Then, carefully, he pulled the rope, feeling for the rhythm of the swing.

It took strength to start it ringing. It shouted out, a high "Ding!" He found the weight of it pulling back, and matched it, like finding the rhythm of a school-yard swing. "Ding! Ding!" Behind him Andy began to sob again, frightened by her little nook, frightened by Mycroft turning his back on her, frightened by the clamor of the bell one story above. "Ding! Ding!"

Outside Mycroft heard shouts and feet running in the street. He had no idea who it was—locals? Police?

The door below crashed in and he felt his heart flutter. Not, he thought, locals. Not police.

The door to the bell tower crashed in.

"I'm armed," he shouted down. "Identify yourselves!"

The only answer he got was racing feet and men swearing quietly.

"Ding. Ding-Ding-Ding!" He dropped the rope, then, and steadied his wrist.

He took out the first gunman in a single shot. The second was close behind, and took two—Mycroft's had was shaking. He wasn't sure if it was fear or blood-loss. Either way, it took more shots than it should have. The third got smart and backed down the stairs. Mycroft could hear him talking on the phone, shouting to his superiors.

Mycroft grabbed the bell rope again. "Ding! Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding!" Not blood-loss, he realized. Not pure blood-loss, anyway. Shock. He was growing cold, his skin clammy and sweating. He forced himself to breathe, forced himself to relax into it.

The gun felt light in his hand. He didn't know if it was low on ammunition, or if he was too light-headed to judge. He didn't dare take the time to check. He rang the bell—on and on, the noise rolling out into the night streets.

The third man swore again. There were voices below…it was, Mycroft thought, anyone's guess whose voices. He steadied the gun again, ready as the third man fled up the stairs and lunged into the room, firing as he came. Mycroft was lucky: he knew where to aim—the gunman didn't. He got off a single shot that dropped the man, who crumpled to the wide old oak floorboards, bleeding onto the old lacquer painted thick on the wood.

Footsteps approached.

"I'm armed," Mycroft shouted again. "Identify yourself."

"Not a chance," Sherlock's voice drawled. "I'll send Scotland Yard in: him you won't shoot."

Mycroft slumped back, shoulders jammed into the space that hid Andy. "Thank God. Come in."

"Have to wade through your body count, first," Sherlock said, easing his way in. "Three? Not bad."

"You've got backup?"

"Full team, and the Met alerted to what's happening."

Behind him John Watson came barreling in, eyes searching desperately.

"She's here. She's safe," Mycroft managed to say. He leaned and turned in place, feeling for the thick baby-bag. He grabbed tight, then hoisted the child high, like a crane pulling up a load of freight at a shipping dock. When she came into sight John threw himself forward, snatching her from Mycroft's grip and curling over her, rocking her as she said, worriedly, "Da?"

"That's right, sweetie. Da…" He was crying—choking on it. He held the girl close. "That's me, sweetie. I've got you. It's all right, now."

Mycroft looked to Sherlock, and said quietly, "Mary?"

Sherlock shrugged and shook his head. "Not settled. Not good."

Mycroft leaned his head on his good knee.

"Anthea's doing better," Sherlock said.

Mycroft managed to nod.

"Aren't you going to get up?"

"Can't. Leg wound."

Sherlock growled in annoyance. "Idiot. Should have said. John, Mycroft's shot."

"No rush," Mycroft said. "Got a tourniquet on, and a pressure bandage." John glared at him, evaluating the situation. Mycroft went on, "Muscle wound. Mid-calf. A fair amount of bleeding till I dealt with it, but nothing that needs your immediate attention, doctor. Just make sure there's an ambulance and I'll be fine. I can probably even make it down on my own, if you move the bodies and Sherlock gives me a hand."

John nodded, curtly, then turned to Shelrock. "If he's telling the truth, there's nothing for me to do here. Can I go? I want to get Andy to the hospital. While there's still…" He choked, then, and turned to Mycroft. "You are never coming near my family again. Do you understand? Never. Those bastards were after you. You brought this on us. You're not coming anywhere near my wife and child. Right?"

Mycroft closed his eyes. "Understood, Dr. Watson. Though you might wish to wait until the final verdict is in." He found it hard to believe that Mary was truly collateral damage. Her presence was too much like coincidence, and Mycroft didn't believe in coincidence.

John just snarled and retreated down the stairs.

"I'll talk to him," Sherlock said.

Mycroft looked up in some surprise. "How…unexpected of you, brother dear."

Sherlock grimaced. "I'm an arse, not an idiot. Things will be easier if John's not taking shots at you any time he sees you from now on."

Mycroft conceded the point.

Sherlock kicked aside the bodies of the gunmen. He slipped his shoulder under Mycroft's, and the two inched their way down.

John was standing at the roadside, waiting for a taxi, one hand holding his mobile, the other clutching Andy to his shoulder. She peeked across the space and spotted Mycroft. She waved. "Li-li-li-li," she called, softly. "My-My-My!"

He waved back, refusing to send her anything but a smile. "Goodbye, my dear."

Sherlock watched Mycroft. Mycroft watched Andy. The taxi arrived. John got in without ever turning back. Andy waved, as the car pulled away. Mycroft could see her mouth move, as she sang, "Li-li-li," and "My-My-My," until the car was out of sight and her shining face was gone.

Sherlock frowned at him. "What was that about?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Nothing. The ambulance is here. Give me a hand over, will you?"

All the way to the E&R, though, he was humming.

"Flow, Morpheus, flow, let the sun and light come streaming…"

At least, he thought, remembering her singing "My-My-My," there really was a light. It made it all worthwhile.


End file.
